Blurred
by Anonymous Eli
Summary: In the aftermath of an accident, Neal is having trouble distinguishing between memory and reality.
1. Chapter 1

The distinction between the past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.

— Albert Einstein

* * *

><p>PART I<p>

Peter's mouth was moving, but Neal couldn't understand the words. He just held onto his friend's jacket, his hands fisting the fabric, trying to remember what was real. If any of it was. God, maybe this was just an awful nightmare. He shut his eyes, willing it all to go away.

Then Peter's hands gripped his forearms, and the muddled sounds became clear. Screams and sirens, Peter's voice. "Neal? Are you hurt? Come on, buddy, look at me."

So Neal did, blinking against the smoke and the ash, trying to make sense of the chaos around him. Peter was still standing in front of him, his face smudged with soot, looking desperately worried. Neal wanted to reassure him, but his throat was too tight, and anyway, he wasn't sure he could form coherent words. It wasn't a problem that Neal Caffrey was used to; he could smooth over the rough edges of any scheme, talk himself into and then back out of a corner, without a falter in his smile. He always had everything under control.

But now, now . . . no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to let go of Peter's jacket, or stop the trembling of his hands. And he was feeling awfully unbalanced, dizzy, confused.

"Neal, maybe you should sit down."

It was a good idea, one that his legs agreed to before his brain. He sat down right there, in what was left of the street, dragging Peter down with him. The shaking got worse.

"I'm going to get you some help, okay, Neal? Just hang on for a second, I'll be right back." And then Peter tried to pull away, to uncurl Neal's fingers and stand up. A wave of panic, raw, electric, swept over Neal, and he clutched tighter.

"No," he said, hoping that it was audible. "Don't."

Peter crouched down beside him again, his eyes meeting Neal's. "Hey," he said. "It's gonna be okay. I'm just going to grab a medic. I think you hit your head."

Neal blinked, confused. "I don't remember . . ."

The words made Peter frown. "Stay here, Neal. I'll be right back, I promise."

And Neal had no choice but to obey, since, now that he thought about it, his head really did hurt, and he didn't think he could get up. He stared at his hands, not sure what to do with them now that he wasn't holding onto Peter's suit.

Peter . . . he'd been so sure that the FBI agent was dead. Consumed by the blast of flame from the warehouse, or else blown apart in the explosion. Neal felt a wave of nausea at the thought, and then an intense fear. Peter couldn't be dead, could he? Not like Kate, gone, as though she'd never been . . . bits of metal raining down, waves of heat rolling off the wreckage . . . But no, Peter was holding him back. Peter . . . hadn't he just been here? Neal closed his eyes. He had the vague feeling that his thoughts were going in circles.

Someone grabbed his arm, shouting his name, and the words were so panicked that Neal opened his eyes. Peter was bending over him, looking worried—when had he decided to lie down?—and Neal felt lightheaded with relief. "You're not dead," he told Peter. Or something like that, since he wasn't sure how well he was stringing words together.

Peter exchanged a meaningful look with someone on Neal's other side and then took Neal's hand. He gave it a reassuring squeeze. "I'm fine, Neal. I got out just in time. Not even a scratch on me."

"I tried to find you," Neal whispered. "I thought . . ."

"It's okay, buddy," Peter soothed. "Is that how you got hurt? Going to look for me?"

Neal didn't know. The moments after the explosion were awfully blurred in his memory, like they were from a dream, or another time. He tried to piece the bits he remembered together, because this seemed very important to Peter. "I heard the explosion. You were inside, and the plane was on fire –"

"The plane?" Peter asked, looking startled, but Neal barely registered the interruption, forcing the rest of the words out.

"—and you were dead. And Kate . . . I couldn't . . . you were in there, Peter."

"Neal." Peter's voice was very gentle now, his eyes sad. "I'm just fine. And you will be, too, okay?"

Neal closed his eyes again. "Okay."

He felt more hands on him now, lifting and pushing, and then there were straps across his chest and legs. Voices floated around, the words washing over him, but nothing made much sense.

"Peter?" Neal whispered, suddenly exhausted.

"Yeah?"

"Don't go. I . . . can't, not Kate again." The words didn't really make sense, even in Neal's head.

But Peter seemed to understand. "This isn't like that, Neal. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

Neal relaxed, the terrible fear that had been scattering his thoughts finally subsiding. "Trust you, Peter," he whispered, and then everything slipped away.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: I'm experimenting with a new style in a new fandom. Please let me know how I'm doing! Reviews are much appreciated.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing . . . not healing, not curing . . . that is a friend who cares.  
>—Henri Nouwen<p>

* * *

><p>PART II<p>

Peter knew, the instant that Fleischer opened the rusty garage door, that their plan was shot to hell.

There were no printing presses, no crates, no full pallets—nothing but a long stretch of cement floor, swept clean, and empty shelves.

_Dammit_.

Peter turned to Fleischer, ready to play up his role as a dissatisfied customer, when he discovered that he had a much bigger problem than the relocation of the counterfeiting ring. The muzzle of a gun was digging into his side, barely concealed by the large pocket of Fleischer's trench coat.

"Inside," the man said shortly, grabbing Peter's elbow and steering him towards the empty warehouse.

Peter silently complied, forcing down the desire to flatten the bastard. He couldn't risk blowing his cover just yet—Fleischer was just a lackey, a minor player in a much larger scheme. If Peter could get anything out of him, any information at all about his reputedly ruthless boss . . .

This wasn't just counterfeiting and smuggling; the ring leader was tied to more than one suspicious death.

Peter's team had to know what was going on.

"What are you playing at, Fleischer?" he said coldly, as the man shut the garage door. "I thought we were leaving the guns at home."

Fleisher just barked out a laugh, pulling the gun out of his pocket so that it was clearly visible. He took a couple of steps back, looking Peter up and down. His wide, lipless mouth was screwed up in a smirk, his eyes penetrating, as he said, "Nice try, Agent Burke."

Though he was surprised, Peter also felt a certain measure of relief—no more games now. "I've got SWAT moving in," he said calmly. "You'll never get out of here alive if you shoot me."

Fleischer shrugged. "They won't move in just yet; you're being jammed. Gives us a chance to talk."

_Dammit! _

"Yeah, let's talk," Peter said cuttingly, trying to buy himself some time to think. "Let's talk about the Canadian currency your boss is forging."

Another short laugh. "My _boss_?" Fleischer echoed. "You really think anyone would send one of their boys to put the FBI off their trail? Nah, that's a job that can be botched, easy."

Suddenly, all of the unpleasant possibilities that Peter had been contemplating since Fleisher had opened the door solidified into an even more unpleasant reality. Where the hell was his team?

Fleischer was outright grinning now. "That's right, Peter. Can I call you Peter? It's like they say, if you want a job done right . . ."

"You'll never make it out of here alive," Peter said again, and he meant it. "You're surrounded, and my team will know by now that you've tampered with the radio."

"You're right, Peter. Time's running short." Fleischer stepped away from the garage door, his gun still aimed at Peter's chest. He backed up, moving along the wall towards a back exit. His free hand slipped into his other coat pocket, and suddenly Peter knew. He saw the wires running along the wall, glimpsed the charges hidden behind the last row of shelves.

He didn't even hesitate.

Before Fleischer could activate the detonator hidden in the folds of his jacket, Peter was sprinting for the opposite side of the warehouse. There was no time to think as several bullets shot past him, ricocheting off the metal shelves; there was only the door at the far end of the building, only the pounding of his heart and the rush of adrenaline.

He wrenched the door open, slammed it behind him—

The shockwave of the explosion hit.

It was a long moment before Peter could orient himself again; he was on the ground, his whole left side scraped and bruised, and someone was shouting in his ear. "Peter! PETER!"

"Neal?" Peter gasped, almost inaudibly. But no—that couldn't be right. Neal was in the van, wasn't he?

"No!" Neal sounded horrified, breathless. That, more than anything, got Peter's attention, and the world slid back into focus. Neal, on his earpiece. Screams, car alarms, the roar of flames . . . a hole the size of a semi-truck in the side of the warehouse, belching out poisonous black smoke.

Peter staggered to his feet, trying to keep his balance on the broken concrete. Shattered glass was raining down from the windows on the upper stories.

"Answer me, Peter!"

"I'm here, Neal. I'm—"

But Neal talked right over him, sounding frantic. "Come on! PETER!"

"Dammit!" Peter said aloud, realizing that the explosion must have taken out Neal's feed. It was blatantly obvious that his partner was not dealing well with this situation. Peter stumbled forward a few steps towards the alley where the van had been parked.

"Boss!" someone shouted, and Peter turned to see Diana coming towards him from the opposite direction. She ran the last fifty feet. Though her face was smudged with soot, she looked unhurt. "Boss, are you all right?" she asked breathlessly.

"Yeah. You? Jones? Where's Ne—"

Suddenly, there was a horrible creaking and crunching, and the side of the warehouse collapsed in on itself. The second and third floors shuddered and then fell, shaking the ground. A black cloud of dust and smoke rolled over them, and Peter and Diana coughed, turning away.

"Diana!" Peter wheezed, realizing that Neal's voice was gone. "Where's Neal?"

"You get that, Jones?" Diana asked sharply, and then held her hand to her ear, listening hard. Peter started to ask her what was going on, but Diana shook her head, still listening. "Damn!" she suddenly said, startling Peter. "Jones said Neal left the van. He tried to follow him, but the building—"

Peter interrupted her. "Where?" he demanded.

Diana looked at him critically for a moment, as though she was trying to decide whether Peter was up to a search and rescue.

"That wasn't a rhetorical question, Agent Barrigan!" Peter said sharply.

Finally, Diana said, "The west side of the warehouse."

Peter knew that was a lot of ground to cover. "We'll split up," he ordered. "We have to find him, Diana." Peter didn't elaborate, but his thoughts were on another day, another explosion, one in which Neal was fighting him, with everything he had, to get to a person he cared about.

And this time, there was no one to hold him back.

* * *

><p>When Peter first saw Neal, standing behind a broken piece of wall, he didn't know what he wanted most: to strangle his partner for causing him so much worry, or to give him a brotherly, one-armed hug, make sure he was all right.<p>

Maybe he could do both at once.

"Neal!" he shouted, picking his way through the rubble. "Neal!"

His friend didn't react, stared straight through him.

"Hey! Neal?" Peter was closer now, close enough to tell that something was wrong. The relief that had swept over him just moments before was quickly being replaced with fear. He closed the remaining distance between them at a run.

"Neal." Peter touched his friend's arm. Neal gave a shuddering gasp, his hands grabbing the lapel of Peter's suit jacket. Peter could feel him shaking.

It was disturbing to see Neal this way, frightened and disoriented.

Peter tried again to get his partner's attention. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

It was clear that Neal had absolutely no idea what he was saying. Peter grabbed his friend's arms. "Neal? Are you hurt? Come on, buddy, look at me."

Neal's eyes finally met his, and though he didn't answer, it seemed that Peter had gotten his friend's attention. Peter tried to examine his friend for injury. His eyes lingered on the blood on Neal's shirt collar, probably from a head wound. His friend swayed a little, his legs trembling.

Peter was desperately worried now. "Neal, maybe you should sit down."

Neal didn't waste any time following his suggestion, his legs folding under him. Peter crouched down with him, still gripping his arms. Neal's shuddering was worsening, his face pale, almost grey.

"I'm going to get you some help, okay, Neal? Just hang on for a second. I'll be right back." Peter tried to stand up, but Neal prevented him, his grip tightening.

"No," Neal said, his voice so soft that Peter had to strain to hear it. "Don't."

The words very nearly broke Peter's heart. Neal sounded so lost, so frightened. Peter bent back down, saying very gently, "Hey, it's gonna be okay. I'm just going to grab a medic. I think you hit your head."

In fact, Peter _knew _that Neal had a head wound, could see the blood matting the back of his hair. But there was no reason to scare his friend.

"I don't remember . . ." Neal said uncertainly, his voice trembling, too.

That was it. The medic couldn't wait any longer. "Stay here, Neal," Peter said firmly. "I'll be right back, I promise."

Peter uncurled Neal's fingers and took off at a run back the way he had come, where he knew an ambulance was waiting. "Hey!" he shouted at the first EMT he saw. "I've got a head wound over here!"

A couple of EMTs followed him back to where he had left Neal, carrying a stretcher between them.

Peter nearly had a heart attack when he saw Neal slumped down on the road, eyes closed. He threw himself down beside his friend, grabbing his wrist. "Neal! _Neal!_"

Neal's eyelids fluttered, and then opened. "You're n-not . . . dead?" he stuttered, the words sounding like a question.

So Peter answered it, after giving the medics a worried glance. "I'm fine, Neal. I got out just in time. Not even a scratch on me."

All right, that was a lie, but he would live. He needed Neal to calm down.

"I t-tried to find you," Neal whispered, sounding distressed. "I thought . . ."

"It's okay, buddy." Peter tried to make his voice sound calm, even though he was worried and—suddenly—murderously angry at Fleischer for this whole disaster. "Is that how you got hurt? Going to look for me?"

Neal's eyes went glassy, unfocused. "I heard the explosion. You were inside, and the plane was on fire—"

Peter was alarmed. "The plane?" he asked, but Neal continued on as though he hadn't heard him.

"—and you were dead. And Kate . . . I couldn't . . . you were in there, Peter."

_Dammit, Neal_. It seemed that Peter wasn't the only one thinking of that day on the tarmac.

Peter rubbed Neal's shoulder soothingly. "Neal. I'm just fine. And you will be, too, okay?"

Neal's eyes closed. "Okay," he echoed obediently.

The EMTs gently moved Peter aside, rolling Neal onto his side and sliding the stretcher underneath him. They strapped him down to keep him from moving, and then stood up. Peter walked beside his friend as the medics made their way through the destruction.

"Peter?" Neal asked, as they walked, his voice a mere whisper.

Surprised—for he had thought that Neal was unconscious—Peter replied, "Yeah?"

"Don't go. I . . . can't, not Kate again."

Peter's throat was tight with emotion. "This isn't like that, Neal," he said firmly. "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

And then, as disarmingly as the first time, Neal whispered, "Trust you, Peter."

Peter couldn't think of a response to that, just walked alongside his CI, his partner, his friend, as he was carried out of one hell of a nightmare.

He didn't know if it would be any better when Neal woke up.

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><p>Author's Note: Thank you all so much for your reviews. You are fantastic! Please let me know what you thought of this part, as well. Just one more chapter to go.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it.  
>—Michel de Montaigne<p>

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><p>PART III<p>

The words washed over him, lapping gently, but most of them got pulled back by the tide.

"Careful now . . . the IV."

"Is he—"

". . . doing well, Mr. Burke."

"But he was . . ."

"I'm optimistic . . . no permanent . . ."

"When do you think . . . wake up?"

The second voice was anxious and unsettling. He liked the first voice better; it was calm, soothing, comfortable. And he _was_ very comfortable, he realized, warm and sort of buoyant.

Floating.

For some reason, that didn't seem right. There had been pain, hadn't there? Everything was supposed to make more sense now, but it didn't.

And then he wondered where that thought came from.

It had something to do with Kate, he was certain, and his thoughts unraveled. He was drifting, caught up in her smile, the way she played with her hair, the sound of his name on her lips. The _feel_ of her: where her head rested on his shoulder, the way their fingers laced together. Silk and soft skin and twisted sheets.

"Neal."

The moment ended suddenly, and he was sorry to see it go.

"Neal? Can . . . hear me . . . okay, buddy. You're going to be . . ."

Peter. That was Peter's voice. Neal tried to open his eyes, but either he had just forgotten how, or he couldn't feel his eyelids—he wasn't entirely sure that he was supposed to be able to do that anyway.

Nothing really felt right, too heavy and numb. His throat was dry and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He tried to make a sound, but nothing came out. Suddenly, the limbo he was caught in didn't seem as comfortable anymore. He was trapped, unable to struggle.

A soft beeping in the background picked up speed.

". . . think he's waking up."

"Neal? Neal!"

There was a hand on his arm, the grip firm but not painful. And there should be pain, he was sure of that now.

He had been on the plane, after all.

"Open your eyes, Neal. Come on." The voice was urgent, almost nervous. Peter never sounded like that.

So Neal tried.

Everything was white at first, but then Peter's worried face swam into focus. "Hey, Neal," Peter said, sounding tentative, like he was afraid how his friend would react.

Neal just blinked.

The hand around his arm tightened. "Hey," Peter said again, as though it were the first time.

This was all very confusing, and Neal was exhausted. He let his eyes close.

"Neal?" Peter asked anxiously.

"S'okay. Y'worry too much, Pet'r," Neal mumbled through numb lips.

As he drifted off, he thought he heard a quiet laugh.

* * *

><p>The next time Neal woke, the heaviness that had been pressing on him had let up somewhat, and his thoughts were less muddled. He opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling for a moment, trying to piece together what had happened. The warehouse, the explosion, and then Peter's voice. Peter. Where—?<p>

Neal tried to sit up, but a pair of hands pushed him down again, gently but firmly. His head was suddenly throbbing, searing pain shooting through his skull with each heartbeat.

"Take it easy, Neal," Peter said, and Neal blinked away tears of pain to focus on his friend's face. Peter was frowning, but not in a way that suggested he was angry. It wasn't _I'm going to kill you when I find out what you've done_, but _I'm worried about you, Neal_. And Neal knew people well enough, knew _Peter_ well enough, after all they had been through, to know the difference.

"What . . .?" Neal said, but he wasn't really sure what he wanted to ask. He let the word trail off.

Peter seemed to understand, though. "Fleischer had rigged the place with explosives. Turns out he was the head honcho, after all. I realized what was happening not a moment too soon."

And Neal remembered with a clarity that was startling, after all of the haziness and confusion, those last few moments in the van. It was almost surreal: he and Jones, monitoring Peter's conversation with Fleischer over coffee—God, _over coffee_, like it was a typical sting—and then the jamming signal. Jones, giving Peter ninety long seconds before alerting SWAT and moving in. But it was too late. There was a huge blast, the side of the warehouse was _gone_, and all was chaos.

Perhaps nothing more so than Neal's mind.

He had called for Peter, pleaded with him until his voice was hoarse, but when there was no answer, he couldn't breathe. Jones had had a hand on his arm ("_Calm down, Neal, we just lost contact. That doesn't mean—"_ ) and then he was stumbling out of the van.

That was when things first started to slip. Maybe it had been a flashback, but when Neal had looked at the warehouse, looked at the flame and the raining debris, he felt a terrible loss, a pain that overwhelmed him. And, without knowing where he was going, he was running. It was his last clear memory; when the building came down, and he was thrown off his feet, things made less sense.

"Neal?" Peter asked quietly, bringing Neal out of his thoughts.

"You got out," Neal whispered, trying to understand.

Peter made eye contact. "Yeah, I did."

"Are you—I . . . You didn't answer me." Neal swallowed hard, looking away.

"I'm okay, Neal," Peter said patiently, waiting for him to sort things out. "The explosion took out my feed."

"Is Diana okay? And Jones? He was fine the last time I saw him . . ."

"They're both in perfect health, Neal. You're the only one who ended up here."

"Here?" Neal asked. He couldn't look around much, since he was unwilling to move his head after the last attempt.

"St. Margaret's. You have a grade three concussion, and you managed to bruise a couple of ribs while you were at it."

"Oh."

"Yeah. 'Oh,'" said Peter. "What were you thinking, Neal, running into a dangerous situation like that?" His voice was gruff, but Neal knew that was the way he got when he went into "overprotective friend mode."

"I thought . . ." Neal closed his eyes. He couldn't continue.

"You thought I was dead, Neal? Like Kate?"

Peter's bluntness didn't _surprise_ Neal, exactly—Peter wasn't one to beat around the bush, after all—but he was a little . . . unbalanced. Uncomfortable. They never talked about what had happened that day on the tarmac, not since . . . well, not really _ever_.

And now Peter was saying Kate's name, something they'd both been dancing around for a long time.

"Neal, what could you have done for me?" Peter asked quietly.

"I don't know," Neal admitted. "I wasn't . . . I wasn't thinking straight. I had a—a flashback, or something. I couldn't stay where I was. I had to _do_ something. Not like last time. Not again." His voice was shaking, and so were his hands, and he didn't know how much more he could say without losing control of himself completely.

Peter noticed. He put a hand on Neal's shoulder, and Neal opened his eyes, meeting his friend's steady gaze. "Neal, listen, you need to rest. We can talk about this later, okay?"

"Sure," Neal said obediently, like he knew he was supposed to, but he didn't have any intention of talking about . . . about Kate. Not later, not ever.

He just wanted to forget.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Okay, I lied. There is definitely one more part to this story (seriously, this time). Please do let me know what you thought of this installment. Your feedback thus far has been very encouraging, and it really makes me want to write more WC fanfic!<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

Have you ever been hurt and the place tries to heal a bit, and you just pull the scar off of it over and over again?  
>—Rosa Parks<p>

* * *

><p>PART IV<p>

Peter was in an especially good mood when he got home. He kissed El in the kitchen as he passed her on the way to the living room, and, feeling more relaxed than he had in days, kicked back on the sofa and turned on the game. When Satchmo nudged Peter's hand with his nose, he scratched the dog's ears.

He had just come from Neal's place, and was pleased with his friend's progress. Besides being physically better, Neal seemed relatively himself when Peter had dropped in on him this morning.

There were little differences, of course: his friend was clearly tired, as though he hadn't been sleeping well—which, honestly, Peter had expected—and then there was the fact that Neal looked a shade thinner than before. Neal had waved that one away with surprising ease, making a joke that, if it wasn't the concussion making him nauseous, it was the meds.

All in all, Neal's condition was so much better than before that Peter couldn't find a single thing to worry over or obsess about. And frankly, that was such a relief. Last week had been a nightmare.

Southern Cal was up 10-0 on Stanford and Peter was nodding off with Satchmo's head in his lap when his cell phone buzzed.

He glanced at the caller ID, planning to ignore it, when he realized that it was Neal. Sitting up, pushing Satchmo away, Peter answered the call. "Neal?" he asked, a bit worried. He had just been at June's, after all.

He was startled when a different voice answered. "No, Suit, it's me."

"Mozzie?" Peter asked, shocked. Mozzie's voice was almost unrecognizable, tense and almost . . . panicked?

"Listen, you need to get over here _right now_. It's Neal."

His heart hammering, Peter started putting his shoes on. He was pressing the phone to his ear with his shoulder a little harder than necessary. "What happened?" he asked sharply.

"I have to go. Hurry," Mozzie said, and then the line went dead.

* * *

><p>Neal was sitting on the Burkes' couch, staring down at his hands. He could hear voices in the kitchen, Mozzie's and El's and Peter's, all hushed and serious. As if they thought he couldn't hear them.<p>

He wished he could find the energy to care. Knew that he _should_ care what they were saying about him. But it all just seemed too much.

He wanted to lie down again, to sleep—or whatever he had been doing the last few days—but he knew that was what had landed him here in the first place, and he didn't want anyone else hovering, looking at him like _that_.

Neal felt guilty about scaring Mozzie so badly. Almost. It had been Peter's fault, really, for showing up unexpectedly this morning and using up all of Neal's energy so that there was none left for Moz.

That sounded bad, even in Neal's head. Maybe he did need to be here.

"Neal?" a voice asked, closer, and he turned a little to look at Mozzie, who was poking his head out of the kitchen. Neal blinked, showing that he was listening.

"I'm going to go get some of your things from June's."

Neal nodded a little, resigning himself to the fact that his friends thought he was too unstable to be left alone.

Mozzie's face was unreadable, but Neal knew that he was worried. The usual smugness was gone from his voice as he said, "I would send the Suit, but I'd have to debug your apartment again. And you'd end up with mismatched socks."

Neal just looked at him, knowing he couldn't force a convincing smile.

"Neal?" Mozzie prompted, now visibly concerned.

Neal didn't want to be any more alarming than he already was, so he forced his voice to work. "Okay. Thanks, Moz."

"Sure. And, Neal, listen, if you want to talk about . . ." He let his voice trail off.

"Okay," Neal said, looking away.

"I'll be back soon," his friend promised, and then slipped out in typical Mozzie fashion: sideways, his eyes darting up and down the street. The door closed quietly behind him.

For a moment, Neal simply sat silently—something he seemed to be doing a lot of, recently—and listened to the rise and fall of Peter and El's voices. He didn't bother to separate or understand them until there was a sudden, jarring crash—a dish shattering. The words became clear.

"Dammit, El, how could I have missed this?" Peter said heatedly, sounding furious with himself. Neal cringed. "I _know_ Neal. I _know _when he's conning. _How _could I have missed this?"

El sounded decidedly calm as she soothed her husband. "Neal knows you, too. I'm sure he was trying very hard to make sure you didn't notice anything. And I don't think he was conning, Peter. He wants to believe that everything's okay just as much as you do."

"How do we help him, El? I just—I don't know what to do." And Peter really did sound lost.

There was a long pause—El was probably wrapping her arms around him—and then she said, simply, kindly, "You just have to be there, Peter."

There was another lengthy silence, and then Elizabeth came out of the kitchen. Like it was a perfectly ordinary day, she came to sit down beside Neal on the couch. "Can I get you anything, Neal?" she offered, touching his shoulder. "Are you hungry?"

Neal shook his head.

El smiled. "That's okay. Peter's busy breaking all of my dishes, anyway. Just let me know if you want something later."

She sounded so normal, and there was no trace of discomfort or pity in her eyes. Remembering Mozzie's forced sarcasm, and Peter's uncertainty, Neal couldn't help but love her for that. "Thank you, El," he said sincerely.

Elizabeth gave his shoulder a squeeze. "I'm going to take Satchmo for a walk. I'll be back soon, okay?"

"Yeah." And Neal was sorry when the door closed behind her.

He was even sorrier when Peter came into the living room and sat down in a chair across from him.

Peter was silent for a long time, visibly trying to calm himself down. Neal found himself waiting for Peter to ask him what was wrong, to push until he got an answer, like an interrogation.

Finally, unexpectedly, Peter said, "I'm sorry, Neal." His voice was very quiet, and he was staring down at the floor.

"What?" Neal asked, surprised. He didn't know what to do with an apology. None of this was Peter's fault.

Peter looked sad, tired. Old, somehow. "I had no idea . . . I didn't know it was this bad. I wish you'd told me."

And Neal wondered, for the first time, what Peter had felt when he'd gotten Mozzie's frantic phone call. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, feeling a surge of guilt.

"Don't be," Peter said steadily, meeting his gaze for the first time. "You don't have to apologize for being . . ."

The words fell away, and silence stretched.

Finally, hesitantly, Peter said, "Neal, I think you've got PTSD."

Neal looked at him blankly.

"I know we never talked about . . . about before, with the plane, and I know you never talked to Mozzie. But I can't think of any other explanation for . . ." Peter ran a hand through his hair. "When Mozzie called me today, when he told me what he thought you'd done . . ."

Neal looked away.

Peter sighed. "Neal, I'm not very good at this. I'm sorry. I guess what I'm trying to say is that, if you want to talk this time, I'll listen. And you don't have to act like you're fine if you're not. Okay?"

Even though Neal already knew that Peter didn't expect him to be all right, not yet, it was a relief hearing the words. He swallowed around the lump that had suddenly blocked his throat and managed to say, "I know. And I really do appreciate that."

They sat quietly for a few more minutes, and it wasn't altogether uncomfortable. Neal hadn't realized how much he actually needed this, this silent support. Without realizing that he had decided to talk, words were pouring out of him.

"It's not usually this bad, you know. I just—I couldn't sleep last night. I was a mess. And then you showed up without telling me, and I didn't want to worry you, so I tried to make everything seem okay. I almost believed it. And then when you left . . ."

He swallowed. "I don't know. It's like I'm missing the hours after that. I was just so exhausted."

"So when Mozzie showed up . . .?" Peter prompted gently.

"I wasn't asleep, not really, but I couldn't answer him. He was worried, calling my name, but it was like . . . like something in a play. Nothing was real."

Peter nodded. "He thought you'd overdosed on sleeping pills, you know."

Neal looked away. "I did finish the bottle. But there were only two left. I wouldn't . . . if it was that bad . . . Peter, I wouldn't . . ."

"I know, Neal."

Suddenly, without warning, Neal's anger flared up. "Do you?" he said, louder than he intended. "Because that's why I'm here, isn't it? None of you trusts me to be alone. You think I'm going to try . . ."

Peter looked briefly surprised, but then much calmer, more assured, than before. Neal's anger was something he knew how to deal with. "If we thought that, Neal, you'd be in a hospital, not here. Believe me, I wouldn't have hesitated, not for a second."

Neal stood up, finding energy that he didn't know he had. "Why, then?"

"Because we think you need the company, Neal. And because _I_ need it. You think you're the only one who's having problems dealing with this? The first night we took you back to June's, I had to take the battery out of my phone. Otherwise, I would have been calling you every five minutes to make sure you were okay."

"It's not the same," Neal argued, just to argue. Now that he had let his anger loose, he couldn't seem to call it back.

Peter stood up, too. "Don't you dare tell me that. When I found out that you'd run off into the wreckage, when I saw the ambulance in front of your apartment and Mozzie told me what he thought you'd done . . . don't you _dare_ tell me it's not the same. You really could have died, Neal."

"So could you," Neal said. His anger broke, and suddenly he was shaking. "And Kate really did. I just couldn't watch it happen again." He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "She was my whole life, Peter. My reason for everything."

"I know that," Peter said gently, not thrown by Neal's sudden mood swing.

"And just when I'd thought I had gotten over her, over what happened . . . I thought my new life was gone, too. And ever since, I've just been trying to pretend like it never happened. And it's just been getting worse."

Peter looked thoughtful. "I think you've just been trying too hard. This isn't going to go away overnight, and you can't con your way out of it. So don't try. Take the time you need, and don't force it."

Neal sat back down, and Peter did too, this time beside him on the sofa. They were quiet for a moment as Neal processed his words. Had he really been rushing things, making himself miserable trying to fit back into his normal routine?

Or had he gotten so good at conning that he had fooled himself?

The thought was not comforting.

Still, Neal mused, even if he couldn't do it, there'd always be someone to keep him honest.

"Thank you, Peter," he finally said, meaning it.

"No problem, Neal." Peter clapped his friend on the shoulder, giving him a genuine smile. "Hey, you hungry?"

And, surprisingly, Neal realized he was. "Yeah," he said.

"I think El made you some food," Peter said, standing up and offering Neal a hand. Together, they walked toward the kitchen, in a silence that was much more comfortable than before.

Neal was just about to ask what delicacy Elizabeth had made to ply him with (capons and white wine?), when Peter suddenly flung out a hand to keep him from walking into the kitchen. Neal looked at him questioningly.

"Sorry. Just watch out for broken glass," Peter said sheepishly, moving aside so that Neal could see the shards of several smashed plates. "I _might_ have been a little upset earlier . . ."

And Neal laughed, really laughed, for the first time in a week.


End file.
